If It's Only Love (Lexi Ryan)

Chapter Thirty

Shay

October 15th, seven years ago

I’ve had months—hell, years—to prepare for this, and there’s still something so surreal about seeing

my father in that casket.

The last days were a slow trudge to a finish line none of us was sure we wanted to see. When he finally

crossed and we saw the end to his pain, we were all . . . relieved. We’ve grieved, we will continue to

grieve, but death itself was welcome.

After a four-hour visitation, my feet are screaming and my fingers ache from all the consoling

handshakes. I just want to go home to Mom’s place and curl up on the couch with a cup of hot

chocolate, like I’m a kid wrapping up a particularly hard day of school and not a grown woman who’s

about to bury her father.

“Almost done,” Mom says next to me, flashing me a shaky smile.

I nod. Almost done. Then tomorrow, we’ll return for the service and put my father in the ground. My

throat thickens at the thought.

It’s been a day of whispers and respectful silence, but I straighten when the whispers change, when

they seem to roll through the room and heads turn toward the door . . . where Easton Connor has

appeared and is hugging Carter with the fierceness of an old friend who understands your heartache

better than anyone.

I didn’t know Easton was coming. I didn’t ask. Didn’t even think about him until now.

A shiver races up my arms at the sight of him. He looks so impossibly broad in his black suit, but my

mind instantly strips it off him, remembering the sight of him under me in his hotel room, the feel of his

rough hands on my thighs as I rode him.

Mom squeezes my hand. “You’re flushed. Do you need to sit down?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s almost over.”

Slowly, Easton works his way through my family members, inching closer to us with each condolence.

When he reaches me, it’s not the memory of three weeks ago that makes my knees weak but the

emotion in those sea-green eyes. I’ve been so focused on Dad and being there for my family the past

few weeks that I haven’t had time to talk to Easton, let alone consider how this loss would affect him.

How could I be so selfish and forget what my dad meant to Easton? Dad was always there when

Easton’s own should have been.

Easton doesn’t say anything. He pulls me into his arms and buries his face into my neck. His body

trembles slightly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick.

I stroke down his back over and over, and when he finally pulls away, the tears I heard in his voice are

streaming down his cheeks.

“Easton,” Mom says, grabbing his forearm. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Easton’s gaze stays glued to me for a long beat before he finally turns to her. “Your husband was an

incredible man. I’m so grateful he was part of my life.”

“Come on,” Jake says, taking my hand. “Let’s go back to the house and get something to eat.”

I swallow and give one last look to Easton, like I’m drowning and he’s my life raft. Mom’s taken him

over to the casket and is telling him the story about when she bought Dad the suit he’s wearing. He

thought it was too expensive and a waste of money, but Mom insisted that with his build, he needed

something custom-fitted to him. Dad declared that at the price they paid, the damn thing better fit him

till the day he died and make him look as handsome as George Clooney when he was laid to rest.

Jake tugs my hand. “Mom will be okay,” he says. “Unless you needed to talk to Easton again?”

What is there to talk about, really? Do I want to use my father’s funeral as the opportunity to confess

that part of me has always waited for him? That I’d probably wait for him forever? “No. Let’s go.”

***

Easton came to the house, and it was like old times. There was so much laughter and food and

reminiscing that it felt more like another holiday than a wake. That’s just how Dad would want it, but I

kept catching myself waiting for my father to walk into the kitchen.

It’s strange how our brains work, because the dad I had for the past few years was sick more often

than not. Thin and weak. Bald. But when I imagine him walking into the kitchen, I imagine the tall and

strong father from my childhood. The pre-cancer dad. Even at the end, the reality of his condition only

hit me in blips. Most of the time my brain didn’t process the changes. Couldn’t.

If he were here, he’d follow the sound of our voices into the kitchen. Dad always chased the crowd—

loved the house to be full and was happier in the middle of chaos than alone with a good book, like me.

He’d go straight to Mom, like always, as if he needed to touch her and convince himself she was real,

because a lifetime together would never be enough. Then he’d sit down at the table and listen. That

was what he liked best about big groups. He didn’t want to be the center of attention or talk constantly,

but he loved hearing everyone’s stories. And when he did speak, you listened, because you knew

whatever he gave you would be good.

“Are you okay?”

I didn’t even realize I was staring into space, but I blink away from the alternate reality and turn toward

Easton. His eyes are so gentle, his hand warm as it cups my shoulder. I nod. “I think it might take me

ten years to accept that he’s gone.” I say it softly, knowing the words might send any number of people

into another crying jag if they overheard them.

“I get that.” He points to the back doors. “Some fresh air?”

“I’d like that.” I grab a couple of beers from the fridge and follow Easton outside. It’s dark, well past

sunset, but we don’t bother with the lights. He stops on the patio, but I shake my head and lead the

way to the treehouse, climbing the old ladder one-handed until I reach the privacy of the fort my father

built for us.

I’m sinking to the floor and pulling the bottle opener from my pocket when I hear Easton’s feet scraping

against the rungs and spot his head poking into the tiny wooden house.

“I don’t think I’ve been up here since I was ten,” he says, pulling himself inside. He’s too tall to stand, so

he stays on his knees and crawls to the wall opposite me, extending his long legs so they’re next to

mine.

“You probably haven’t fit since then,” I say, squinting at him through the dark and smiling. I grab the

battery-operated lantern from the wall and click it on. It’s not much, but it’s enough to cast a warm glow

around us—enough so I can see his face. “You hardly fit now.”

He glances up at the ceiling, way too close to his head, even seated. “Eh, there’s plenty of room.” He

nods to the two beers beside me. “Is one of those for me?”

“If you want.” I open them both and hand one to him.

His sigh fills the space a beat before his sadness. “This is the first time since I was drafted that I’ve had

more than a single drink during the season.”

“Your body is a multimillion-dollar temple.”

“This temple is all I have. Without this, I don’t have shit.” His words are slightly slurred, and I wonder

how many he’s had. I know he was drinking while talking to my brothers. I had a few too. I’m tempted to

get sloppy drunk, but Mom’s here and she wouldn’t like that.

“You always thought you were nothing without football,” I say. “I never believed that.”

He gives a small smile and sighs. “Thanks.” He traces the lip of his beer with his index finger, and I can

tell he’s trying to work up to say something important. Something I probably don’t really want to talk

about right now. “Mom’s sorry she couldn’t come. She wanted to be here.”

I smile. I can handle talking about Ms. Connor. Easton may have grown up without a dad around, but

his mom did everything in her power to make up for it. “How is she?”

“Busy. Happy. Finally pursuing her passions instead of just trying to get by.”

“Art, right?”

He nods. “She’s obsessed with watercolors. She’s really talented and doesn’t give herself enough

credit.” He lifts those sad eyes to me. “A lot like you, I guess.”

He’s so close to me up here, but with our legs stretched out between us, he feels so far away, so I roll

to my knees and scoot across the plywood floor to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “I love the way

you take care of her—the way you didn’t question it when you joined the league. You just did it.” When I

tilt my face up to look at him, I catch him studying me, his gaze glued to my mouth. “You’re a good son.

I bet you’re a good dad too.”

He blinks away. “We need to talk about what happened in Chicago.”

“I’d rather not right now,” I whisper, focusing on the frogs in the distance, the cicadas singing in the

trees.

“I need to.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “I want to be a good

dad more than I want anything. I’ll never be like your dad—I travel too fucking much, for one—but I

want to try to be as close to that as I can manage. Everything I know about being a good father came

from him.”

I take a deep breath before rising to my knees and turning to straddle him. His eyes go wide and his

jaw slackens, and for a moment, the look of wonder in his eyes is worth all the years of longing—of

wanting and feeling like he was so far beyond my reach.

He grips my hips and slides his rough thumbs under my shirt, rubbing absent circles there. His eyes

are glassy and his cheeks are flushed. “Shay, I’m serious. I need to explain.”

I shake my head and bring my mouth to his. I know this is complicated. I’m in grad school; he’s in the

NFL. I’m just an average girl, and he has models knocking down his door. And never mind how my

family will react . . . I brush my lips over his. “Not tonight,” I say. His mouth is soft against mine, but his

hands tighten at my waist. “I know we have things to figure out, but we can do that another time.” I tug

his bottom lip between my teeth.

He groans, then shoves me away—and not gently. “Shit. I’m sorry. We can’t.”

I scramble to the opposite wall, my pride stinging.

“Fuck. So sorry, Shay.” He rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand, and he might as well have

slapped me. Is he rubbing away my kiss? “Shit, shit, shit.”

My own apology sits on my tongue, but I trap it there. When he said we needed to talk, he didn’t mean

figuring out the details of us—he meant he needed to explain that there isn’t going to be an us. I’m

such an idiot. Why did I expect anything else?

I draw my knees into my chest and close my eyes.

“Shay,” he whispers. “God, I screwed this all up.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re fucking amazing. And if things were different . . .”

“Please stop.”

“Do you know what I admire most about your father?”

I press my forehead to my knees. I can’t handle this right now—this conversation, this rejection. And if

he tries to bring Dad into it, I’m going to fall apart.

“He was there. For all of his kids. For his wife.”

I squeeze my knees tighter, trying to tune him out because his words are bringing the tears back,

coaxing them from the pit of my stomach and into my chest where there’s nothing but chaos. I feel

myself shaking and pray he can’t see it. Why did I kiss him? Why did I think he’d choose me?

“And when things were falling apart between them, he stayed.”

I whip my head up. My eyes burn and my stomach aches, but those words. “What? What do you

mean?”

“Dad was never in love with anyone else.”

“No. You misunderstood.” I shake my head and scoot toward the ladder. “You don’t know what you’re

talking about.”

“He wanted you all to stay together. Frank knew his kids needed to have both of their parents all the

time. That’s what I want for Abi.”

I fall to the ground, clutching my ankle, and roll to the side.

Easton is next to me in a flash. “Shay, look at me. Tell me what hurts.”

I must have screamed when I landed, because I hear the soft thud of feet coming across grass from

the house. “Is she okay?” It’s Carter. “Shay, what’s wrong? Is it your ankle?”

It’s my heart. “I landed wrong,” I say, avoiding Easton’s gaze, even though I feel it on me so intensely it

burns.

“Here, let me help you up.” Carter slides a hand under my shoulder and hauls me to my feet. I gasp the

second I try to put weight on the bad ankle. “Do we need to go to the hospital?”

“No. I just need ice. I’m fine.”

Easton goes to the side opposite Carter. I don’t want Carter to ask questions, so I don’t deny his help.

Carter asks anyway. “What were you two doing up there?” Ever the protective big brother. Coոtent оf Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

“Just talking,” Easton says. He reaches forward to open the door, and I hobble inside, letting them half

carry me to the couch. “I’ll grab some ice,” he says when I sit, then he disappears in a rush to the

kitchen.

Carter reaches around me to pull the lever on the reclining sofa to elevate my feet.

“What happened?” Jake asks.

“She fell out of the treehouse,” Carter says.

I smack my brother’s arm. “I didn’t fall out. I missed a couple of rungs on the ladder and landed wrong.”

The sharp pain has subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. “It’s just twisted. I’ll be fine.”

Easton returns with a bag of ice and apology all over his face. His eyes are hazy. He’s drunk. He

probably didn’t have any idea what he was talking about before. My dad has never loved anyone but

my mom. He wouldn’t—

My stomach lurches. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Jake grabs an empty popcorn bowl off the end table and shoves it in front of me before the three beers

I’ve had tonight rise from my throat and splash into the bowl in a nasty cocktail of alcohol and stomach

acid.

“I’m so sorry, Shay,” Easton says. I can’t look at him.

Carter tenses beside me and throws an angry glare in his direction. “What did you do? You made a

pass at her up there, didn’t you? You fucker. Didn’t you just tell me that you’re trying to work things out

with Scarlett?”

“Stop it,” I say, but the words are wrapped in a sob I can’t hold back. He’s working things out with his wife. And dear God, that hurts, but nothing feels right in a world where what he said about Dad is true.

“When he fell in love with someone else . . .”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t need to go to the ER?” Carter asks.

I’m not okay. But there’s nothing in the emergency room that can fix me.